Tag: poetry

I don’t really write anymore. And it isn’t because I do not enjoy what used to be of utmost pacification –well, perhaps not utmost but on some high ranking of covert pleasure, like the way altruism feels, a secret sort of open-ended type of deed that is meant to fill the ambience with a floral aroma of goodness. Of righteousness? But it never really does. I suppose it never really did. I don’t think there was a flaw ever in and of itself — it was simply never meant to be enough.

I think at some point it is of some obligatory cognitive impetus to “smell” a goodness flying out of fingers typing or penning, but it’s a spiral that twirls downward, at least that is how it was for me, at least that is how I know it to be for all excellent writers. That was an inadvertently placed phrase implying I’m excellent (haha I don’t actually feel that way) which was quite hilariously placed.

Ah, whatever I don’t really write anymore. I have found other things to do — perhaps I may label them as hobbies as I did the first, I have found what I had been babbling about for a few months. Blah blah and blah purpose. But God has smoothed a path for me and I am grateful.

I suppose this is the remaining writer in me with its obnoxious convoluted circumvention wanting to say a message of a sentence in an essay. I suppose this is me saying good bye to this blog and what is in it, I suppose I can keep what’s on it running and I suppose it may not be a permanent end — although I am not too sure what is to be done to a platform unheeded. Algorithms don’t get tired I guess — so it’ll just stay.

Disclaimer: this feature photo is one I took at some vintage boutique where they sold everything rustic. I photographed that frame in hopes one day I would paint that scene — it had imbued me with such a tranquility the first time I glanced at it, but I never began the project. Of course I didn’t. We writers love talking those talks.

It has been one month.

Well,

Two days to a month–

I miss him and my leggy heart is feeble

Oscillating with its lame arms hanging like string

The month was thought to feel like a year but my spatial perception of time has felt nothing

Yesterday, it speaks

He was only gone yesterday — but before yesterday no sensory motor functioning gears up in the recall center

It is as though a chunk of placid procedural memory, a non thought induced or selectively attended memory, has turned blue

Depleted of its energy of function

I think it is grey now — gradually ripening and drying to soon break off

And dissipate into the rest of the rust

I wonder if other things are dying too

Perhaps enough will stay until a Miracle

My eyes have started wincing from an intensity — I’m not sure which side it presses from

Disclaimer: the following post is ridiculously personal. I know I haven’t made these lame disclaimers in a while, but just in case any of you feel confused about the tone, it is because my mind gears can get stuck in some function sometimes, a computing error, so it blurts out nonsense. Just as with most of my other personal posts they are usually for me to reread after a certain problem has passed (with the will of God), anyways thank you for sticking around. And sorry that these posts make no sense, I’ll hopefully be putting up better content soon.

It has been 19 days. It feels like 19 months. Nineteen. Perhaps a few years.

We are entering the third week of incarceration — mental psychical flatulent prison.

Let us pretend to be wrecked, injured from spewing debris.

Let us force some muscles to curve and laugh with the kids until he returns.

Let us inhale then exhale and not choke in between,

Nothing is broken

Perhaps except for her — but she’s always been away

Love is no entity requiring observable forms of emotive behavior,

I suppose that necessitates a grinding pain of infatuated idealism that is as feeble as the last gazelle in the herd

Targeted as sure prey

I know little of the sense that is to arrive from my words, perhaps they are not mine for right now

I understand writers embody a certain prestige, an air that usually reads ascetic on paper

And hedonistic in practice

Truth is not from the mind that already seeks — that one has already launched

Keep your body here now let your mind travel to a start — the one that slowly placed you here

You’ve lost a good chunk of expression, but who cares about this language anyway

Learn and learn and learn then die

Return and return and return alright

He will come back to you. He. Will. Return.

Ah, patience if you can hear me,

I pray for your warmth.

And I pray for your serenity

I wonder if there is such a thing as a liar who knows not whom they are

Perhaps it feels easier to loosen a commitment to some scar, the wind filling it with grit — coating it in a timed dust that I let pass through

I have always had the choice to know how to live, I have always been driven by some motive to exist — but never like this what a blessing!

I remember so clearly being honest with myself

As a child with frilly hands, a shaking pen and the mind of a goldfish – where’s my next meal? My next round transparent bowl of water? Maybe today I can nibble instead of bite and tomorrow I can crunch and not wiggle —

Inside the stomach of an adolescent girl watching some impending event

It’s probably some boy, some symbol of synchronized similarity

That this is real

That is a past that hurts —

It hurts to return by words, or to have him talk to me about it

There seems to be a struggle with words as I attempt to put something down

There is little eloquence that comes with that facile wave of a graceful wand painting letters of nothing

And pretending there is meaning

Tonight I am staring at this screen — wondering whether this frilly type of worry is healthy

I am not too certain what fits best as an expatiation of the beautiful ineffability, I merely continue to efface side after side until something sounds fine

So there lies little assurance that the stupid teenage girl can be okay, that she can exist like a distant ghost hovers above a soul — as that has been spoken it rests as some haunting — I don’t want that certainly

Certainly certainly

I think I want the days to just pass

So that he may meet my family and I may meet his

So that some desicion of certainty may be made

So that I can grow up and feel at ease that

If not escape here then there

Patience isn’t from me, nothing is I must be certain

Ah, I cannot formulate words

I am so certainly stupidly excited. endnote: this feature photo is my art and photography

I have joined my University’s magazine as an editor. For the first issue, they’ve allowed me to participate as a writer. The theme everyone chose was ‘Religion’, and after observing a huge amount of negativity on everything that has to do with that topic, I decided to write this piece. I only hope that they won’t shift or remove any of this during publication — but I have decided to post it on my favorite platform nonetheless. This is probably the most passionate I have been about writing in a long time. [Guys, I swear I wrote this in half an hour. It’s the passion, I tell you!]Continue reading “Article #1: What Is Religious Freedom?”→

About

Evince is a personal blog embossed with pretentiously difficult vocabulary and slightly tangy humour. The different categories on this blog allow for the reader to explore with the author, as they come up with new thoughts or experience new events -- and then there's a little splash of psychological concepts in application just to keep things feeling intellectually productive.